Tris, Hayes & Videotape
by flying-one
Summary: Tris has trouble with intimacy. Peter is a guy who videotapes women talking about sex.
1. Chapter 1

notes:

I totally stole this idea and various snippets of dialogue from the film "Sex, Lies and Videotape". Bless James Spader.

Thanks to my lovely beta Ninazadzia for being awesome and American, as I suck at AE. Check out her profile on for more Petris!

* * *

Light is seeping through the trees outside the window, dots of green swaying with the wind. I keep watching those trees, ages old and rooted in the ground and wonder what they've seen. How many people have passed them. How many weeds have sprung up at their feet. How strong winds bent their twigs, and yet they keep standing. Keep rooted. Keep surviving.  
My name is Tris. I'm twenty years old. I was in a civil war and I survived.

You would think I'd be in therapy for the emotional trauma the war caused me, seeing my loved ones die, and struggling in a new world where none of the rules I'd grown up with apply anymore. I've been uprooted and replanted and torn out again and when I look in the mirror now I can see a wilting woman. 20 is supposed to be your prime, isn't it? When your buds open up and you unfold like so many flowers. When you know where you belong.  
I just don't know anymore.  
I look down at my hands, at the lines in my palms branching out, trying to figure out which one is which.

"You shouldn't be alone with this," Christina says.

She's sitting opposite me in the big black leather chair that occupies her bright white office. The white walls are cleansing, she says, but I suspect it's a remnant of her upbringing in Candour. It fits, because if you can't be honest with your therapist, when can you be? Still, I don't tell Christina everything. That I hate white, for example. I don't tell her that for me, white means my cell at the Erudite complex. White means lab coats. White means death.

"I'm not alone," I say, looking at my fingernails. "I have you."

Maybe that's all connected, the horrors of the war and my inability to have relationships. But there are dozens of issues to be sorted out and dozens of issues that never will be: I can't make my parents come back to life and can't take back the bullets I've fired into the heads of my enemies. What can I do? That's the question that's been nagging at me since I've started therapy, and started watching the trees.  
What is there even left to sort out.

"You know what I mean. You're isolating yourself. When's the last time you went anywhere except the clinic?"

Christina looks dejected today. It's one of the disadvantages of letting your best friend therapy you. You can always read them, no matter how professional they usually are. And Christina is worried about me.

"I went to that art exhibition last week," I say.

"You went alone."

That's true. The exhibition was called Lost places. - Photography of abandoned buildings and rotting playgrounds. Very fitting for my current state of mind. Yes, I'll stop being melodramatic now.

"I think it would really be beneficial for you if you tried dating again. Alan was a good start," Christina goes on.

I shake my head. No he wasn't. "I'm not ready. I can't — "

Alan had been nice enough. Considerate. Charming. The last person who tried to reach out to me, and I almost stabbed him. He really didn't deserve that ugly memory, but it's what happens. I've never been very touchy, but now I shudder at the thought of someone else's hands on my body. At first it's nice, knowing there's someone who cares about me. Next moment, they're deadly hands, attacking me. The war is over and my life is not in danger anymore, but in those moments I can see it slipping away under someone else's fingertips.

Above the shelf in the office, there's a picture of Christina and William, one they'd taken during Dauntless training, arm in arm and smiling from ear to ear. I wish she would take it down for my appointments. I don't know how she deals with it.  
Christina was the one who suggested it, that I take therapy, after she finished her studies at the university. We could have done it at home, her place or my place, and I wouldn't care, since she refuses to let me pay her anyway. But she claims coming to the clinic makes it more official.

If she didn't, it's possible I'd never have seen Peter Hayes again. Fate is almost cruel this way.  
When I'm walking down the hall after my session, he's standing in the entrance foyer, wheedling a snack out of the vending machine, and I stop short.

"Did you pay for that?" I ask, gesturing at the chocolate bar in his hand, and slotting in a few coins to get one for myself, or rather to get a pretence for finding out what the hell he's doing here.

"Of course. What do you take me for?" Peter asks, feigning hurt.

"A liar and a traitor," I say, gnashing my teeth.

I can feel his gaze on my profile as I focus on pressing the right buttons.  
He snorts.

"What?"

"Things have changed, Tris. It's been years, if you haven't noticed. The war is over. There are no sides anymore."

"Some things never change," I say, but I notice the scars that encircle his face now, and how his build has become much leaner. He's not training anymore.

"Right. I still hate owing things. So don't worry, because that extends to vending machines. I don't steal."

I lean against the vending machine in question and unwrap my chocolate. "So why are you here? Not just snacks, I'm guessing."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Are you really that stupid? This is a therapy clinic. I'm in therapy."

Yeah, that should have been obvious. But why here? "With Christina?" I ask.

"Yes," he says and staggers off in the general direction of her office.

"I met Peter Hayes last week."

Christina looks up from her clipboard only briefly, as if this wasn't groundbreaking news. "Yeah, he's my appointment after yours."

"And you didn't tell me?"

This time she holds my stare, and raises an eyebrow. "Tris, why would I tell you that?"

I feel something starting to prickle in my veins and grip the sides of my chair. "Because he's dangerous? Because he's a traitor?"

Christina sighs. "Some people would say the same about you. Can we start now?"

"What's he in for?" I ask. "I mean, what's his problem, beside the obvious psychopathic streak?"

"He's my patient, Tris. I can't tell you anything."

Whenever Christina is majorly irritated with me, it results in constant repetition of my name. I can tell the severity of the situation that way.  
One Tris: Yeah, go ahead. It might be a coincidence.  
Two Tris: Yep, she's getting pissy.  
Three Tris: Better shut up if you want to stay friends.  
I do a quick replay of our conversation in my head, concluding I've got exactly one question left.

"Is he post-traumatic?"

"Tris!" Christina shakes her head and sets down the clipboard. "This is no use. Why don't we cut this short and go out tonight?"

"You know how I feel about going out," I say.

"A pub. Not a club. You won't need to talk to anyone. You won't even have to look nice. And now off."

She shoos me out of her office and I can hear her exhaling after the door falls shut. I know she's trying to help, and get me out of the house, but I'm not sure whether the proposed shock treatment of hanging out in a place where there a bound to be more people than I see in a whole week is the best approach.

Peter is sitting in one of the chairs in the foyer again, not eating snacks this time but reading a newspaper. I check my watch to see he's forty minutes early.

"Don't you have a home?" I ask, walking past him.

"Tris," he calls after me.

I stop. "What?"

"Are you okay? You're off early."

"None of your business, is it?"

He tries folding the newspaper but none of the pages fit, and he awkwardly shovels it onto the table. "That's true. But since we both have nothing to do right now, we might as well go to the café around the corner and get some ice cream?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Why would I do that?"

Peter shrugs. "Catch up for old time's sake. You're curious, aren't you?"

"Okay, then, why would you do that?"

He shrugs. "Consider it an apology."

Huh.

The ice cream place around the corner is one of those that have a window spanning the whole of one wall, which gives me an excuse not to stare at Peter's face too much but look at the people passing by outside and the trees. It's windy again today and the clouds fly like they're in a hurry, letting patches of clear blue sky peek through. We're sitting opposite each other across the small table, on bar stools that are uncomfortably high but still it's less caging than Christina's office. It was Peter's idea to share a strawberry bowl, which he's paying for. With both of us working away at the mountains of cream I know what it must look like. Like we're a couple.

"So, I'm curious," I say. "Why are you in therapy?"

Peter traces the lines on the table.

"Cat got your tongue?" I ask.

Peter scratches his neck and twists the spoon between his fingers. "This is not exactly easy."

I cross my arms and lean back, letting him fidget. It's the first time I'm seeing him this uncomfortable, and damn if I'm not going to enjoy it.

"Well, it's not like I should be afraid you'll have a bad opinion of me," Peter says.

"I already have a bad opinion."

"Exactly." He beams at me. "So, the thing is I've had ED for a while now, and Christina said it's not caused by my biology, so it can be treated."

"ED?" I ask, chewing a strawberry.

"Erectile Dysfunction."

The strawberry gets stuck somewhere in my throat and the resulting coughing fit makes my eyes water until Peter is just a blurry spot on my vision. I calm down enough to press out: "Your you-know-what doesn't work?"

Peter shrugs. I can feel colour shooting up into my face. Of everything he could be in therapy for, I hadn't expected this. Neither that he'd tell me outright.

"It never has?" I ask.

Peter looks me in the eyes now and I'm taken aback at how he can be so open about this. How he's not avoiding my gaze when I'd be a stuttering, blushing mess if I was in his place.

"Well," he says. "It works when I'm alone. Just not when I'm with other people."

"Since when do you know?" I ask, unable to hide my curiosity.

"Dauntless training. It was the dormitories."

Yeah, I remember that. It had been tough to sleep in the same place with everyone else, dress and undress in front of them. I hated it. And what did Peter do? He called me Stiff all through training and constantly made fun of my reservations. My jaw clenches at the memory. What a fucking hypocrite.

"I'm not proud of the way I acted," Peter admits, stirring the leftover cream in the bowl. Another thought crosses my mind.

"So you've never slept with a woman." It's a strange notion, with how popular and strong he was. I'd expected girls to throw themselves at his feet. Well, maybe they had.

Peter's eyes crinkle. "You must have a very limited understanding of what counts as sex."

My face feels like it's going up in flames now and I know he can see it, because he's chuckling provocatively. Knowing how flushed I must look is making me even more embarrassed. Is this why he wanted to talk? So he could embarrass me?

"Is therapy working for you then?" I ask, my voice much too high to my own ears, trying to change the topic.

Peter smiles. "I've found a way to therapy myself by now. Seeing Christina is just a habit."

"Oh? So what are you doing?"

He shakes his head. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"Is it illegal?"

He laughs. "No. Not that I know."

"So you're not gonna tell me?"

Peter's face becomes more serious now, with a stray ray of sunshine catching in his lashes as he looks at the table, and he looks almost vulnerable.

"I don't think you would understand it."

"You're right. I've never understood you." I gesture around the room. "This. Why?"

The corner of his mouth tugs up. "I'm not the person I was back then. Thankfully." He checks his watch again and gives me an apologetic look. "My appointment is in five minutes. I should head back."

He puts a few notes on the table, shrugs into his black jacket and leaves before I can thank him for the ice cream.


	2. Chapter 2

It's torture, to wait a whole week with that question on my mind. Wondering what Peter's secret is. It's under mitigating circumstances then, that I can't keep from nosing around. I'm early on purpose, sneaking into Christina's office when I know she'll still be on lunch break.  
H for Hayes, H for Hayes I think as I'm going through her drawer. Hayes, Peter.

There it is. His file's in a black folder that reminds me of his jacket, and it only takes me a few seconds to untie the string. I lick the tip of my finger to flick through the pages and yes, there's something about his erectile dysfunction, about it emerging during training, so that was true. I go back to Christina's notes on his last session, skimming Christina's scrawl and bits and pieces pop up from the paper.

desire to change past errors

temper has calmed

no substance abuse

battling with self-consciousness

irregular nightmares

found new participants for his videotapes

Videotapes? I turn the pages until I'm at the very back of the folder but there's nothing and I put it back, already flushed with the feeling of wrongdoing and my heart beating in my chest. I still puzzle over what Christina could have meant with that when a small SD chip slides out of the file and into my palm. Someone has written a name on it.  
Christina.

I pull my phone from my pocket, open the back and with shaking hands and another nervous glance at the door, click the chip into position. There's a video file on it, and a date, and when I play it, it's Christina sitting on an old brown couch I've never seen before.

"So, are you going to ask questions or how does this work? Should I undress?" she asks, looking into the camera.

"You don't have to answer anything. Just do whatever you feel comfortable with." That's Peter's disembodied voice. He must be filming. "Just tell me about your sexual history. What your first time was. What turns you on."

Christina grins and my stomach drops at least a mile into the ground. What am I looking at here? What is this?

Christina wraps a strand of hair around her finger and makes herself more comfortable on the couch, spreading out in a way that can only be described as salacious. "My first time," she chuckles. "That was a teacher at school. A year before the test."

I frantically swipe my fingers over the screen to find the stop button and cut her off before I've heard everything, seen everything, and I almost drop my phone in the process. Of course Christina comes in the moment I've caught it and am still clutching it to my chest, trying to fumble the chip out of the bracket.

"Tris? Are you okay?"

I realise that I must look totally stunned. I am stunned.  
"You're shooting pornographic videos with Peter Hayes," I whisper, and now it's out, now she knows I know and who knows what might happen next.

She snorts. "They're not pornographic. He — Wait. He wouldn't tell you that. You went through my drawers?" She grabs the phone and chip from my hands. "You went through my drawers and you watched it?"

"I didn't, I paused it," I try to explain. "I didn't know it was porn. God, Christina! How could you be so stupid? Is he selling that? Are you on the Internet now? Did he pay you? You could lose your job, you know that? Fuck."

Her hands grip my shoulders and walk me back to the chair I usually sit it. "Calm down, Tris. He's not showing it to anyone."

"How can you know that! What were you thinking?"

"It's part of his therapy."

"It's what?" I blow a loose strand of hair out of my face, then use my hands to tie them, still shaking.

"He has erectile dysfunction, I guess you know that as well since you went through his file." The contempt in her voice is obvious. "But he can get off when he's alone, so he's making these videos of women and when he's alone he watches them and —"

"You let him — let him — jerk off to you?" And there are more? Not just Christina…

Christina shrugs. "Why not? It's just talking. He just asks questions."

"Oh god," I bury my face in my hands. "I can't believe you. How could you just offer yourself up like — like some piece of meat for his collection."

"You think I'm a slut, that's what you think, don't you?" Christina says and the venom in her voice takes me aback. "Not everyone is a fucking prude, okay? Some people have a healthy relationship with sex."

I can feel the colour draining from my face. "I'm a prude," I say. "Okay." I get up and take my phone out of her limp hands, then make for the exit.

"No, Tris," she calls after me. "I didn't mean that. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you."

I walk out without looking back. And if Peter's absence from the foyer is anything to me, it's relieving. The trees don't sway today. They're holding their breath in the thick, stuffy summer air that makes my clothes stick to my skin and I just keep walking away from the clinic. Just keep walking with that red haze in front of my eyes. And for the first time in years, I miss the war. And I miss the raw, primal power of a gun in my hands. Miss the rush of combat when I didn't feel so small like this.

It doesn't take long to find Peter's address from the phone book. It's not a particularly thick one anymore, with all the people who died in the war, and the reluctance of outsiders to move into a city that's still marred by destruction. Peter's apartment is just on the outskirts of the old Abnegation sector, which brushes me the wrong way, but I won't turn back now. No, it's time to be dauntless.  
And I am dauntless, when I press the doorbell. And I'm probably stupid, because he won't be there, because he's got his appointment with Christina now and fuck, how didn't I think of that sooner? I'm about to step down from the porch when the buzzer sounds and lets me in.

"Tris? Didn't expect you here," Peter says, scratching his neck and letting me into the flat that's small and cluttered but bright, and there are trees in the window. "I only have water."

"Okay," I say, not really trusting my voice yet. I didn't expect his flat to look so normal. Open spaces, wide windows and light that makes the dust motes dance in the air. An assortment of classical literature on a bookcase next to the door. A painting of a forest above it. The only indicator of what's going on in here is the couch in front of the window, and a camera lying on a shelf.

"Why aren't you at the clinic?" I ask when he hands me a glass of water, and ice cubes that are brilliantly cold against my cheek. The perspiration from the glass runs down my throat and makes me shiver.

"Christina cancelled my appointment. I figure it's your fault?"

I sit down on the couch, pressing my legs together and sipping from the glass, only belatedly realising this is the brown couch from the video. Christina sat here. He filmed her sitting here.

"I don't think she should therapy me," I say. "Or you, for that matter. I know about the tapes."

Peter slides down the doorframe to the kitchen and leans his back against the wall, watching me. "Is that why you're here? To give me a lecture?"

I shake my head. "I don't know." Why am I here? It seemed clear on the way here. I would confront him. I would shout at him. I would force him to hand over the tape he made of Christina and burn it.

Peter is still watching me, sitting on the ground and looking amused, which annoys me to no end. But in this kind of light, with the stripes of the half-closed shutters from the window dancing across his arms, he doesn't look like the villain I made him out to be.  
It's just talking. He just asks questions.  
I take another sip of water.

"I guess you were just thirsty then?" Peter says, smiling. "It is pretty hot, but I wouldn't have made all the way over here just for some water."

Somehow, only the words thirsty and hot register with me, and I internally shake my head at myself. Peter is all the way over there, making no move to get up, seemingly content to watch me like some fascinating piece of art you wouldn't touch for fear of messing with the paint. There is curiosity and there's intrigue and still, I don't feel threatened. Could I have that? Both?  
My next words slip out without me really thinking about it.

"I want to make a video." Holy shit, I think once I've actually said it. Do I? Do I want that?

Peter stares at me like he's replaying my words in his head until he can be entirely sure they came out of my mouth, and in that span of time, I almost hope he didn't catch them.

"No," Peter says. No? He's perfectly fine making a tape of Christina, and who knows how many other women. But when I ask, I get a no?

I cross my arms. "Why not?"

"I don't think you would make that choice in a normal frame of mind," Peter says. "You're upset."

"And what would you know about a normal frame of mind?"

Peter chuckles. "That's a good question."

There's a clock ticking somewhere, in another room, the dull tock, tock, tock sounding through the walls.

"Are you doing this to prove anything?" Peter asks. "That you're not a Stiff?"

"It's just talking, right?" That's okay. I can do talking. I want to talk. I want to know what it's like to tell someone these things. "What do you need to do to get ready?"

Peter scratches his neck. "Uh. Load a tape and turn on the camera."

When Peter still doesn't move, I set my glass of water on the ground and get up to take the camera from the shelf, fumbling with the buttons to turn it on, opening the hatch and slotting in one of the unmarked tapes. I can feel his eyes on my back and then I turn around and hand it to him.  
I sit down on the couch again, my back to the trees.

Peter turns on the camera. "It's recording now."

I shift a little as nervosity wells up inside my chest.

"Tell me your name," Peter says.

I laugh, a bit of the tension falling off my shoulders. "Tris Prior."


	3. Chapter 3

The trees are swaying behind me. Rushing like great big waves of leaves, like the blood in my veins.

"Have you ever touched yourself?" Peter asks.

I snort and cross my legs. "You know I was raised in Abnegation. It's just not something we do."

Peter looks around from behind the camera placed on his knee. "But you're not Abnegation anymore."

"No, but - Okay. It's -" I have to hide my face in my hands for a second, then brush a strand of hair away as if that's what I'd been planning to do all the time. "I, um - I tried it once."

"What was it like?"

"It was just so dumb. You know, I kept thinking, what would my parents say if they knew and - yeah."

I know a lot of girls are different. At Dauntless, I heard them talking over lunch, about shower heads and what you can do with them, and I remember it made me blush. I always blush, and I hate it, being put on the spot like that and my embarrassment exposed by my own face. I just can't talk about these things. But - I'm talking now, aren't I? With Peter's eyes on me, and the barrier of a camera lens.

"Have you ever had an orgasm?" Peter asks and I take another deep breath. These questions aren't getting any less delicate. I look at my feet, then at Peter.

"I don't know." Despite the warm summer air, a surge of goosebumps erupts over my skin. "I don't think so. I'm not really sure how it's supposed to feel."

"But, you slept with Tobias."

I shrug. "I did."

"Did he try to pleasure you?"

I draw my legs up the couch and put my chin on my knees.

"Do you want to stop?" Peter asks.

"No. No, I don't want to stop."

Peter repeats the question. "Did Tobias try to pleasure you?"

I shake my head. "Not particularly. It's - I guess he thought it would be enough. What he did. But it doesn't matter, we broke up."

"Why?" I can hear genuine curiosity out of Peter's words, which is weird. I wonder if he gets some kind of kick out of this. If he wants to hear me affirm his view of Tobias as a brainless jock. It wasn't that. Tobias wasn't brainless. He'd done nothing wrong.

"I don't know. I mean, of course I know. It was one of those relationships were you just keep clinging to each other. Because you're both scared of the alternative."

"Are you still?"

"Scared? No, I'm afraid of being smothered." I'm afraid of staying in a flowerpot that's too small and feeling my roots press against the walls with no room and no strength to break out.

"Have you been with anyone else since then?"

"No."

"Have you ever thought about having sex with someone else?"

"Yes."

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Who have you thought about?"

I close my eyes and smile. I open them again to look at Peter. "I've thought about you." Another weight falls from my shoulders, and I imagine a loud crashing sound as it hits the floor and shatters, spilling truth into the room.

Peter doesn't take his eyes from me. Big and dark and questioning. The scars on his face are more prominent in this light, and I imagine tracing them with a fingertip.

I decide to push it. "Have you been thinking about me?"

Peter blinks once, catching sunlight with his lashes.

"Yes."

That one word sends a small ripple of warmth down my spine. I feel like arching into it, tasting it with every inch of my skin, bathing in it.

"What did you think about?"

Peter smiles and leans his head back against the doorframe, exposing the scars on his throat. "I thought about what you would look like having an orgasm."

The corners of my mouth turn up without me having any control over it, and it's a smile that spreads through my bones.

"I want to know what I'd look like, too. Can you give a woman an orgasm?"

"I can."

"Can you do that for me?"

"No."

I force myself not to look away, forcing the disappointment welling up in me to stay down.

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't? You've wanted to, didn't you? Back when we were at Dauntless?" It doesn't make sense any other way. It just doesn't. Him snatching my towel. Making fun of me. Always riling me up.

Peter sighs and wipes a hand over his face, putting the camera down next to him. "Tris, forget about the sex. I'm not the same person I was. Not even remotely. This right here," he motions from himself to me, "this wouldn't be possible any other way. The way we're talking right now."

"Not the same person? What has that got to do with it?"

"Everything. The way that I relate to other people. How I express myself. I was a liar, Tris. The greatest liar I know."

My face scrunches up. "I know you were. Why did you come back here, then?"

Peter looks like he's grappling with something, trying to make me understand, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I moved back here for - huh. A sense of closure, you know. Resolution or something." He hugs himself and takes a deep breath. "People used to hate me here. They despised me. Maybe I wanted to make sure they see that I'm not that guy anymore."

"That's pathetic, Peter," I say. "You think anyone cares? Who you are?" If there's anything I've learned in the years after the war it's that nothing you did back then matters anymore. I used to shoot people. Now I go grocery shopping. The lady at the cheese stand who was a Factionless wishes me a good morning when I pass. It's jarring. "You can't just expect people to care about who you are. Three years and this is what you come up with?"

"Forget it," Peter says, showing me his profile as he stares out of the window.

"No. I won't." I walk over and grab the camera from the floor, training it on him. "Tell me. Is this who you want to be for the rest of your life?"

Peter startles, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car, and brings his hands up to defend himself against the unforgiving gaze of the camera.

"Don't do that," he says, trying to get away.

"Why not? I just wanna ask you a few questions. Like why you film women talking about sex, huh?" The camera in my hands is making me bold, like a weapon aimed against Peter's evasiveness. He turns his back to me, supporting himself on the wall, shoulders tense like a stretched rubber band.

"Tell me why."

"Look," he turns around. "I really don't think this turning the tables is interesting."

"Well, I do." I'm watching him through the lens now, accentuating the contrast in his face and still I feel like I'm close. Closer than I've ever been to anyone else. "Tell me why."

"What?" Peter says. "What do you want me to tell you? Am I supposed to recount all the points in my life leading up to this and hope that it's coherent? Is that what you want to hear?" His arms are hanging helplessly at his sides. "A nice, clean explanation like how my parents didn't tolerate weakness? How I didn't learn to be strong but to hide? Learned to lie? You think it's that easy?" Peter shakes his head. "Tris, you don't even know who I am. You don't have the slightest idea who I am."

I stare at him, taking in his sudden outburst with a weird mixture of triumph and disappointment and clutch the camera to my chest.

"It doesn't make any sense to me," Peter says, starting to pace the room. "And I was there." He laughs. "I don't have the slightest idea who I am."

He whips around again and sits down on the armrest of the couch. "And I'm supposed to be able to explain it to you? No. You tell me why. Why do I have to explain myself to you?"

I'm leaning against the doorframe, where he'd been sitting just a minute ago.

"Because maybe I can help you."

Peter huffs. "Help me with what?"

"Your problem."

"My problem? Do I have a problem?"

"You've got a problem."

Peter laughs, but it's not a nice laugh. "You're right. I've got a lot of problems. And they belong to me."

I can see the trees behind him, shaking in the wind. Shaking their heads as if they listened to our conversation. I know their roots are all intertwined, that they're feeding the beetles and worms in the earth. That they're drinking the water that falls from the sky and seeps into the ground.

"You think they're yours but they're not. Everyone who walks through that door becomes part of your problem," I say.

What I can see on Peter's face now looks like agony. I've stripped away so many layers and this is what he looks like naked, like a wounded animal. "I didn't want to be part of your problem but I am. Since the moment you made me and I don't know if that was four years or two weeks ago, but I am. I saved your life, remember? And you saved mine. I'm alive because of you. You've had an effect on my life."

Peter shakes his head. "This wasn't supposed to happen." It's almost a whisper, just loud enough that I can still pick it up. "I've spent three years structuring my life so this didn't happen."

I watch him turn his back to me and look out the window and I don't want him to. No. Look at me, Peter. Don't run away from this. Don't fucking run. We've both run for too long.


	4. Chapter 4

I put the camera down on a chair and walk towards him, slowly, not wanting to startle him, until I'm behind him and can see his chest rise and fall with each breath. The strained muscles in his shoulders and neck. I match my breathing to his. Feel my heart beating against my ribcage. I can do this. I can.

I bring up my hands and set them down lightly on his shoulders. I leave them there, let his warmth seep into my fingers. I lay a hand on top of his head.

Peter's hair is hot from the sunshine falling through the window. I brush the soft, dark curls and feel him leaning into it. It must have been so long since anyone did this. It's been long for me. Long enough to feel like a first time, tentative and exciting and lovely. And I want more. I know with a certainty that I won't get flashbacks today.

The fabric of Peter's shirt crumples as I grab his shoulders again, pull him back until he's lying spread out on the couch, eyes closed. It looks almost like he's sleeping, dreaming of something pleasant. I lower myself next to him, pushing his legs to the side to make room and take his hands in mine. Caress them. Explore them and the lines running across his palms.

"You know I don't expect anything from you, right?" I whisper. In fact, I only believe this is going to work because neither Peter nor I am someone to dive right into the cold water. He won't scare me.

Peter opens his eyes to look up at me and God, I want him to look like that forever. Want him to look at me like I matter. Amazed that I exist. I take his hand and bring it to my face, letting him touch my nose, my lips, my chin, my jaw and leave a trail of tingling skin in his wake. I lean my head back and let his fingers slide down my throat, to my collarbones.

"You're beautiful," he whispers. And I feel beautiful. I feel liquid, floating above him.

Something pulls me forward, some deep longing in my gut that draws me down to Peter until my lips are hovering over his. I can feel his breaths mingling with mine, my hands tangling in his hair again without me even thinking about it. When our lips meet, his hands come up to curl at the nape of my neck and I have to hold back not to sigh into his mouth. He catches my bottom lip between his teeth and a spike of pleasure courses through me. And then he draws back, leaving me breathless and yearning for more. He pushes past me and gets off the couch and my heart sinks. Did I read him wrong?

He bows down to the chair and turns off the camera, turning 'round to me with a giddy smile on his face. Oh.

Oh.

It's different than I expected it to be. His mouth on my neck, my hands on his chest and our naked skin sliding against the other. He touches me in ways I've never been touched before, like we've got all the time in the world, with his hands mapping every inch of my body. I feel like a landscape, like a blanket of sensation spread out on the couch, impulses running along the surface and sizzling out only to be replaced by new sparks of pleasure. Oh.

I forget to be afraid. When I'm completely exposed to Peter, sitting in his lap with his cock trapped between our stomachs. I keep biting softly at his jaw, his throat, feel his spine arch, moving with me.

"I don't know if I can keep this up," he mumbles, motioning down. Surprised that he's hard at all.

"I don't mind," I say, taking his hand and sliding it between my legs to let him feel how wet I am.

Peter nuzzles my neck and moves his hand up and down, making everything throb and my heart beat so much faster. He slips a finger into me and I let out a low whine, biting my lips to keep quiet.

"Don't do that," Peter says. "I want to hear you."

Oh.

He adds another finger, stretching me so that I already feel full, sliding in and out with beautiful friction that makes my walls clench around him. "Ah. More, please." I would be embarrassed about the way I'm rutting against him now, but the addition of a third finger makes all my thoughts shut down. I'm all warmth and molten gold now, clashing around Peter, the only thing anchoring me to reality.

Oh.

"More."

"I don't know if I can," Peter says, hiding his face against my chest.

"Do you want to?" I ask.

"Yes. Tris. God. Of course."

I take his cock in my hands then, relishing in the hardness, in my power over him. Peter moans against my neck and all I can think is, holy shit, I'm doing this. I'm doing this to him.

Before I really know it, I'm arching up, rubbing him against me.

"Tris," he pants, fingers clawing into my back, drawing red lines.

"It's okay," I whisper, bringing my right hand up to bury in his hair. "Want to make this good for you. Don't think."

I stroke him at a steady pace, letting the head of his cock press against me with every motion. So close. So close.

"You want to be inside me?"

"Yes. Please, Tris. Fuck."

That's all the cues I need to sink down on him, torturously slowly, feeling him inch after inch. Peter breathes like he's having a heart attack, clutching at my back even more tightly.

"Feel good?" I ask once he's fully seated inside me, trying to form words around the sensation of having his hard cock pushing against my end. My thighs are positively shaking.

"Amazing," he rasps, kissing the corner of my mouth. Then my lips. Deeper. Down to my core. Curled all around me. Pausing only to wrap a strand of my hair around his finger and ask: "How do you feel?"

I laugh. "Better."

"Better? Not amazing?" His eyes are crinkling at the corners.

"There's room for improvement. If you'd move, for example."

And then he does, and Oh.

Fuck.

Peter grabs my hips, guiding me to move with him, letting me ride him to the broken rhythm of our stuttering breaths and it's more than amazing. It's just oh.

Somehow I end up lying on my back, with Peter between my legs, deepening the angle, trying desperately to get closer to me although we've already completely merged, to the point I'm not sure where I end, where he begins.

Suddenly, he pulls out, crawling back and my arms dart out in reflex, trying to draw him back.

"Relax," Peter says, "I'm not going anywhere."

I look down in time to see him lick a stripe down from my belly button.

His mouth is between my legs then, lips brushing over every centimetre of my skin, and Oh, oh fucking Oh.

"Peter," I gasp out, and I think I can feel him smile.

I'm on fire. Burning up. Melting to be lapped up by his tongue. And behind the sharp twangs of pleasure I can feel something else building, something headier, something darker.

"You want to know what you taste like?" Peter asks, coming back up to kiss me, and it's right there on his lips, my scent, my excitement, my desire, tasting hot pink and vulnerable and just plain lewd. I moan into Peter's mouth shamelessly as he starts to finger me again, convinced that I'll go crazy if we keep doing this, teetering just on the edge of being unendurable. I can feel that edge more and more now, as if each movement of his pushes me closer to it. What happens if I fall down?

"Relax, Tris," Peter says again, turning me around suddenly and wrapping over my back, his cock sliding between my legs, rubbing the over-sensitive skin, and I yelp. His teeth graze my throat, my earlobe, and oh, yes, definitely going crazy.

"It's too much," I whine. "I don't know —"

"Tris?" Peter's voice is low, right next to my ear. "I'm going to keep fucking you now, until you come."

My body is reduced to all shivers just at those words. Peter pushes at my entrance, sliding into me in one slow stroke that has me crying out his name again. At the same time, his hand comes 'round to rub over my clit.

It's too much. It's — I'm —

"Tris," Peter says, fucking into me and stroking my clit and mouthing at my throat. "Let go. Come for me."

I can't stop it now. The edge is there. And I'm plunging into it, shouting, crying, completely shaking apart around him as everything goes white for a moment. There are only trembles. The white heat spreading out into all of my limbs. I'm shivering, but on the inside.

Then, the room floats back, and Peter, covering me, and holding me, and kissing my neck. His cock is still inside me, everything sticky from the sweat on his chest and my back to the skin between my legs, completely drenched in my juices.

I'm dizzy. Still floating on a strange kind of high that I never want to come down from.

"Tris?" Peter mumbles into my hair. "I think you just came so hard, the neighbours are going to be jealous for the rest of their lives."

My eyes fall open. Is that what I did?

Oh.

The sun is slowly vanishing behind the line of trees, bathing everything in a soft orange glow. Peter's face, the stubble on his jaw.

"When you said you were afraid of being smothered," he starts, drawing the blanket up to our chins, "what did you mean?"

I intertwine our hands underneath the blanket. "Like a tree," I mumble. "Other trees standing in the path of sunlight, and my tree can't grow. Or weeds, climbing up the trunk and choking me. That's what I'm afraid of."

Peter squeezes my hand. "Trees aren't people, Tris." He follows the lines in my palm. "Trees are for climbing and felling and building boats. Trees are for birds to build their nests in. We aren't supposed to be trees."

"But what if I am a tree?" I ask.

Peter shakes his head and smiles. "You're not a tree. You are a bird."


End file.
